


of all things meant to be

by yanak324



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Cousin Incest, F/M, Gen, Identity Issues, Post Season 6, Sisterly bonding, arya pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-04
Updated: 2016-08-04
Packaged: 2018-07-29 08:27:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7677262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yanak324/pseuds/yanak324
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hope is a dangerous thing and Arya can see it vividly in Sansa’s eyes – she briefly wonders if it is perhaps a reflection of her own – but doesn’t stop to analyze.</p>
            </blockquote>





	of all things meant to be

xxx

A girl may have no name. 

But Arya Stark of Winterfell has quite a few possessions.

She has a sword.

She has a list. 

She has a home.

And she has a family. 

A brother named Bran – who will always be Bran to her even though he is now someone or some _thing_ so much more; a sister with hair the color of fire and eyes filled with an icy ferocity that speaks more to her wolf origins than her Tully inheritance. 

And then there's Jon – a Targaryen by blood, King of The North by name, and a potential threat to the girl with no name. 

But to Arya Stark of Winterfell, he is simply Jon. The man who taught her how to fight, how to smile, how to find light in the darkness even though his own path always seemed so bleak.

The girl with no name thought little of Jon during her time in Braavos but Arya Stark of Winterfell remembered him every time she wielded Needle. Every time the blade sliced an enemy's flesh, he was there on the periphery of her mind; a faint memory but solid enough to make her feel protected and safe.

When she first made it home, she'd wondered who had protected him, who made the King of the North, the son of fire and ice, the former bastard of Eddard Stark feel safe.

She'd heard stories, recounts of what he'd done. Some were surely falsehoods, some over embellished truths from the mouths of men who claimed to have fought alongside the legendary bastard.

All the gaps, the Three-Eyed Raven had been more than happy to fill – _just don't wonder off on your own_ had been his request before he showed her where Jon’s story had led him thus far.

He had been saved by fire, according to the Three-Eyed Raven, resurrected by light. Though the reference to the Lord of Light and the dragon blood flowing through her cousin’s veins seemed clear, Arya now knows that a different fire makes Jon – the man – feel safe. 

Not dragons, not the Old or New Gods, not magical blood...

But a woman with hair the color of fire and a hardened stare that at times made Arya forget that she is her sister. 

The same one she had bickered with in her youth; who glared disapprovingly at her when Arya traded dresses in for breeches and forced needlepoint on her when all Arya wanted to do was learn to sword fight.

The Three-Eyed Raven also showed her Sansa’s path but not without hesitation. 

Afterwards, she understood why. 

If the hounds had not done their job, her list would have grown by one more name. 

Instead, Arya spends her time in shaded corners of her old home. Tucked away in spaces only she knows about, polishing Needle and biding her time until she can make her next move and cross out another name on that list.

That's how she finds herself an accidental voyeur.

She's in a part of the castle that seldom gets visitors when her ears prickle at the sound of voices. 

Voices that are hushed but emphatic and so damn near her, she goes completely still.

"We have to tell them." 

"Not yet...not when Arya is still-"

"Sansa." 

And she has to look, has to turn her eye to the scene because the pleading in Jon’s voice pulls at something inside her – a curiosity that so far has been unmatched.

When she does look, a knot of guilt tightens her belly. The image the two of them paint is so private, so intimate, she feels like the intruder she is. Yet, she cannot look away.

Even the girl with no name is intrigued. 

Early morning light spills into the corridor, illuminating the pair as they stand locked in an embrace that is not meant for prying eyes.

The girl with no name holds her breath while Arya feels the staccato of her heartbeat in her ears.

"They know of my parentage. They will understand." 

She watches her former brother stroke her sister’s cheek and notes how Sansa visibly leans, despite the tension in her shoulders. 

"It's possible that Bran already knows..." 

There is a bit of a smile pulling at Jon’s lips as he says this but it looks more like a half frown if Arya stands to analyze it and in the ensuing silence, she nearly predicts what he is about to ask. 

"Are you…are you ashamed of –"

Something nearly shatters inside her at the way Sansa looks up at him in absolute horror. 

"Gods no," she implores and Arya doesn't think she's ever heard such conviction in her sister’s voice, "oh Jon, I love you. I want to be yours. Heavens, I _am_ yours.” 

She says it like she wants to imprint the words onto the inside of his skull, tattoo it across his doublet so he can carry it with him wherever he goes. 

Arya so badly wants to look away, especially when her sister leans in and seals her lips over Jon's but she doesn't. 

Instead she watches as Sansa gently cradles his face between her palms while he stands motionless before her.

"You are my family, Jon. You _must_ know that." 

That seems to snap him out of his reverie and he wraps his own hands around Sansa's wrists, but instead of holding them, he removes them from his face. 

"Aye, I do know that, darling and you know how I feel about you, but -" he pauses then, exhaling deeply into her sister’s hair and Arya knows whatever he has to say next is not easy for him. 

"But until you can proclaim that love to the rest of our family, I am not sure I can _trust_ you." 

He steps back then, breaking the spell between them and Arya can almost feel the anguish that passes through her sister.

"Jon, but Arya -" 

"Arya may never be the same again. She may never be ready for whatever you envision the fallout from this to be. You must accept that." 

From this angle, she cannot see the intensity of the look they share but the defeat in Jon’s tone is palpable as he adds, “one way or another.”

The ensuing silence bites at Arya hard. She has spent so long on her own now, focused solely on survival and vengeance, the concern of someone else, even her sister’s, throws her entirely off kilter. 

It forces her to look away, slink back into the shadows so she does not have to confront the disappointment on Sansa’s face as Jon walks away from both of them. 

xxx

She doesn’t need much sleep but the next three nights pass without a moment of proper respite. 

It takes a toll on her - she sees as much when she catches glimpses of her reflection in the dusty mirrors that line the castle walls. No one says anything to her, except for Bran, who has apparently grown into a man who does not mince his words.

“You look like a ghost,” he tells her one evening over ale and stale potatoes, “a ghost with shadows in her eyes.” 

Instead of making some quip about having been a ghost for much of her time away from Winterfell, Arya throws back the rest of her ale, wipes her mouth with the hem of her tunic and leaves the table. 

Sansa’s and Jon’s eyes follow her from opposite sides of the table – she knows they’re worried but neither has approached her about it and that makes her more anxious and reluctant to succumb to much needed rest. 

It’s difficult to accept their concern especially because she is the cause for their unhappiness; however subtle they try to be, she notices the difference. 

Notices the way the Lord and Lady of Winterfell no longer seek each other’s council during meetings, no longer take afternoon strolls through the Battlements, no longer sit together during supper.

Bran must notice too but he does not mention it and the unspoken words, paired with the pity she feels in every corner of her childhood home and in every pair of eyes she encounters, nearly drive her mad.

She realizes she has to do something when the thought of slicing off her own face begins to sound appealing.

The girl with no name does not believe in coincidences or fate but Arya Stark of Winterfell recognizes that her sister finding her in the Godswood at the precise moment that these dangerous thoughts take root is a sign from the Old Gods that her story is far from over. 

It doesn’t make it easier to face Sansa. Not when her sister looks so muted, so meek, dwarfed by her furs and virtually devoid of color, of the spark that made her stand out so vividly against the snowy terrain when she first welcomed Arya home. 

“Do you mind if I join you?” Sansa asks, cautiously eyeing the movement of Needle. 

“I thought you no longer prayed.” 

But even as she says it, Arya moves over to make space under the tree, sliding her sword back into its rightful place by her hip. 

“I don’t.” Sansa confirms then takes a seat, “but I come here to think sometimes.” 

It seems like an open invitation and although her sister does not meet her eye, Arya looks directly at her.

“And what pray tell is on your mind right now, sister?”

She doesn’t actually expect Sansa to answer, given the slight edge of mocking in her voice, which she can’t seem to unlearn. But Sansa surprises her. 

“Lord Baelish.” 

“He still wants your hand in marriage, doesn’t he?”

“Yes and despite my stalling, I can see his patience wearing thin. It’s, it’s quite unnerving.”

“Well you know the fastest way to get him to retreat is to marry someone else; someone with more power than him, who can challenge his claim.”

She pauses then, thinking she has not felt this level of trepidation in quite some time. It feels like something from a past life – recognition that her words might mean something to someone else, might carry some weight. That hasn’t been the case in so long and that’s precisely why she cannot cower away now. 

“Someone like perhaps the current King of the North who could justify the union as a means to unite the Seven Kingdoms through his dragon blood and your Stark name?”

If Sansa had looked at Jon with absolute horror, she now looks at Arya with undisguised bewilderment and perhaps a touch of fear. But it’s gone the moment Sansa blinks – no doubt something she learned during her time with the Boltons. 

Never expose your vulnerabilities to your predator or he will take you down.

While the girl with no name may be a predator, Arya Stark of Winterfell is not, at least not to her kin. So, without much thought, she slides closer to Sansa, until there is not an inch of space between them on the wood. 

She contemplates, for a moment, reaching for her sister’s hand, but instead presses her thigh against the warmth of Sansa’s furs and looks straight ahead as she speaks. 

“I saw the Kingslayer the night I slit Lord Frey’s throat. He was partaking in the feast, only half alert. He dismissed me as a threat, perhaps assuming I was as much after his cock as the other serving girls looking his way.”

The Sansa of Arya’s youth would have gasped in disgust at such crude language but the Sansa of present does not even flinch.

“The point is, dear sister.” Arya pauses to adjust her sword, “I could have finished him off that night. I could have crawled into his tent and chopped off his golden cock right along with his other hand and then slit his throat slowly enough to watch the life drain out of his half-conscious eyes. But I didn’t.” 

“Why not?” 

The question comes so quickly, so easily, Arya turns to look her sister in the eye. The unbridled curiosity she sees there wraps a curl of unease around her spine. Perhaps the Stark sisters have more in common than the girl with no name originally thought.

“He is not on the list.” 

It’s simple and it’s the truth. Sansa looks away then but understanding hangs between them. It appears that despite the very different roads the Stark sisters have taken to return home, their conclusions are the same. 

Revenge is necessary. 

Death is inevitable. 

But they need not be the executioners all of the time. They are still human and to hold onto that humanity, boundaries must be set. 

Sansa learned that in her quest to reclaim their home and Arya learned that from the Many Faced God. 

It’s why she’s not in Braavos anymore and why Sansa cannot let the past consume her. 

“Besides, death would be far too kind for the Kingslayer. I think he will suffer far more when he sees me carve his pretty sister into pretty little pieces and set her head on one of the pretty little spikes of that stupid throne she sits upon.” 

The very unladylike snort she hears chills Arya to the bone but there is warmth in Sansa’s eyes, a fire Arya thought to be extinguished. She smiles in return and it stretches her face in a foreign but not unwelcome way. 

“Mother would be horrified if she heard us speaking like this.” Sansa says after a few moments of oddly companionable silence and Arya is reminded of the reason for their conversation. 

“Yes, she would. Perhaps more with you than me though. But she is not here, is she?” 

She had not meant for it to come out so much like a question. It has been so long since she’s thought of her mother at all; she is ill prepared for the grief she feels. 

Sansa does not humor her, however. Does not offer empty words of comfort and for that Arya is grateful, because it makes it so much easier to say what she knows her sister needs to hear. 

“But Jon _is_ here. So is Bran and so am I and so are _you_.” Hope is a dangerous thing and Arya can see it vividly in Sansa’s eyes – she briefly wonders if it is perhaps a reflection of her own – but doesn’t stop to analyze.

“We are what is left of the Stark name and we have to stay together in order to survive. It doesn’t matter how, whether by blood, by marriage, or even by love. We are a family. That is what matters. Nothing else.”

If Sansa means to argue, it does not appear so from the almost serene expression on her face.

It goes unspoken that there are wars on the horizon that can still tear them apart; enemies and even allies with their own agendas who pose threats yet to be revealed. 

It goes unspoken that Arya Stark of Winterfell still has a list, that all the names on that list will surely meet their end by her hand. 

But it’s easy to suspend all that for a moment and just exist, revel in the knowledge that for the time being, they are together and they have survived and that whatever happiness they can extract in the here and now, they should take greedily, embrace wholeheartedly, without reservation.

When Sansa’s gloved hand settles into the curve of Arya’s elbow, she lets it be. 

It’s not much but it’s a start. 

xxx 

A girl has no name.

But as Arya Stark of Winterfell watches the Lord and Lady of Winterfell smile at each other as they dine together once again, she realizes she has quite a lot for which she should be thankful.

So distracted she is by the image they paint over the rim of her mug, she does not notice her brother observing her until he nudges her side. 

“You did well, sister.” Bran murmurs under his breath, and whether it’s because he has seen this already or because he is simply just that aware, Arya does not know. And she does not care, because, this is supposed to happen. 

For Jon, for Sansa, for all of them. 

She’s as sure of it as she is that she will not rest until all the names on her list have been extinguished. 

But she also knows she will sleep tonight, and so she lets a half smile curve her lips as she elbows her brother right back and teases him quietly, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, _raven_.” 

Bran smirks but says nothing, merely leans forward to touch his mug against hers in a quiet salute. 

They sip the remainder of their ale in silence. 

xxx


End file.
